Stop All the Clocks
by Malianani
Summary: Years before he meets Edward, Carlisle's life is touched and forever changed by one man whose presence reminds him of the one thing he really wants: a true friend.


**Author's Note: **_This story was inspired by a short section in chapter 19 of Ithaca is Gorges, written by Giselle-LX. In it, she introduces the idea that Carlisle was friends with the great American Impressionist artist, Frederick Childe Hassam. For some reason, that little bit of trivia sparked my imagination and I decided to explore what Carlisle might experience when he realizes their friendship must come to an end._

**Stop All the Clocks**

The ticking of the mantle clock has never sounded so loud in his ears and he has a mind to open the glass and silence its movement, like humans in mourning do. His gaze drops to the neatly folded piece of paper peeking out from under the smooth, worn wood of the chessboard. He stares at it but has no need to read its contents again. One perusal has forever burned it into his memory.

He is moving to France, the note says. He wonders if his good friend Carlisle could take just one afternoon away from his work to see him before his ship sails. Perhaps one more chess match, for old time's sake? They could meet on the Common at the stone table under the arms of the ancient oak tree. They could linger until nightfall, now that the weather has turned so fine. He swears that he finally has a foolproof strategy and will defeat the good doctor once and for all in check and mate.

Carlisle reaches out and tentatively strokes the ebony queen. He feels the corners of his mouth lift just a little. He knows all about Hassam's stratagems. Their matches invariably began with the clearing of his throat, which persisted until Carlisle finally inquired after his health and offered him a peppermint. His opponent then upped the ante with prolonged and appallingly bad renditions of "Oh Susanna" and "Camp Town Races." When he grew weary of that approach, he employed his final and most melodramatic tactic. For the rest of the match, each time Carlisle reached for a piece, he could expect to hear a shout of "ha _ha_!" and look up to find Hassam twirling the waxed tips of his moustache like the villain in a pantomime play. And while it did nothing to injure his chess playing, the look on Hassam's face never failed to make Carlisle laugh.

Hassam may have been a master at capturing the sparkling play of light and color across fields of flowers, but they both knew he was hopeless at chess. And yet, it had never mattered to either of them. Their matches had always been a pretense really, an excuse to meet. They'd discussed everything from the rise of the Labor movement, to the Beaneaters' losing streak, to the artistic merits of Keats' philosophy of light and shade. They'd sat through long comfortable silences too, reveling in the poetry of the wind as it tumbled through the trees, crashing around them like waves over an inland sea.

The note contains an address in Paris where Hassam can be reached. Carlisle will write to him regularly at first, and as time marches inexorably forward he will taper off, blaming his lapses in correspondence on his grueling work schedule. Time itself will take care of the rest. In a few decades, age will do its part to dim his friend's eyesight, twist and maim his fingers, and enfeeble his wits. Eventually, he will go the way of all humans, thus eternally cementing the silence between them. Although, considering the fickleness of the human mind, he knows the chances are good that any memories of their relationship will sift away long before then.

_If only the same were true for vampires_, he thinks as he carefully rolls the black queen between his fingers.

He replaces the chess piece on its rightful square and suddenly finds himself standing in front of the old clock. Resting his palms against the cool marble mantelpiece, he leans in a little, listening. The sound of the pendulum resonates around him as each stroke moves surely to the next, forming the familiar heartbeat of time. His eyes drift closed, and once again he sees Hassam's lively face shining before him just as it did the day they first met.

_He'd been trapped in his apartment for nearly a week while most of Boston enjoyed a run of brilliantly sunny days. When the clouds finally rolled in, he celebrated the occasion by strolling to the Common to people-watch. Sitting alone on one of the wrought iron benches there, he immersed himself in the everyday sights, sounds, and smells that humans so often took for granted but in which he delighted: the cries of ice cream vendors selling their dainties, the soft rustling of skirts and the fragrance of lavender and lemon verbena as women walked past, and the raucous laughter of young boys as they chose sides for a pick-up baseball game._

_"No one as young and handsome as you should be capable of producing such a miserable expression."_

_A full second passed before he realized that the remark was meant for him and he found himself taken completely off guard. Aside from the fact that he had never before been addressed in such a manner, at that moment, sitting on his bench in the midst of human company, he thought he felt perfectly content._

_He looked up to find a large man standing before him, dressed in a tight-fitting black sack suit and sporting a flamboyant yellow tie. He wore no hat to tame his unruly hair, and his ruddy complexion seemed almost to pulse with the exuberance of life. Carlisle had never before encountered anyone quite like him and he struggled not to stare._

_The man must have noticed the way Carlisle blinked in surprise because he suddenly broke into a smile that was both bewildering and awe-inspiring. Carlisle felt the sudden urge to gasp, as a human might do in the face of an unexpected, bracing wind._

_"The name's Hassam. Frederick Hassam." He extended his hand and Carlisle remembered his manners._

_"Carlisle Cullen. How do you do?" He stood and, before he allowed himself to fully consider the ramifications of his actions, he reached for Hassam's proffered hand._

He lets his hand drop from where it rests against the mantelpiece. Somehow, even after six months, he can still feel that first handshake, the firmness of Hassam's grip against his fingers, the tingling sensation of warmth radiating up his arm and into his chest. He feels the heat surround his silent heart, filling it to the point of overflowing, engulfing it with a pleasure so strong it borders on pain.

As if on cue, the image of Aro's pallid face rises before him. His haughty lips twist with pity, and the ache in Carlisle's chest turns to throbbing. He should never have reached for that hand or allowed that smile to capture his heart. He should never have said "yes" when Hassam asked him if he played chess or promised to meet him again on the Common. He should have disappeared to Maine, or Michigan, or some nameless town in some other state.

He should have left well enough alone.

It's one thing to interact with humans as Dr. Cullen, the kindhearted but somewhat distant physician who only touches others to set bones and perform examinations, who dispenses pills and powders, and who shares advice—but never much else. It's another thing altogether to presume he could ever let his guard down and just be "Carlisle" once in a while; a man with thoughts and ideas, hopes and dreams, desires and fears—a man who, if he admits it, only really wants one thing: a true friend.

He looks up past the clock and into the simple mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. Amber eyes stare back at him out of an alabaster face trapped in time. His friendship with Hassam could have only lasted so long before the artist's keen eye would notice that Carlisle's face never changed, that time seemed to stand still in his presence. A long-term relationship was impossible. Carlisle's world revolves around one rule: keep the secret. No one can ever know who he truly is.

He knows he should be happy with what he's been given. Before he met Hassam, he had never expected such a friendship at all, let alone one that lasted as long as six months. It should be enough.

"But it isn't enough," he whispers as he opens the clock's glass case and touches the pendulum. It stutters against his fingers for a moment and then falls silent.

"Stop all the clocks," he murmurs. "Happiness departed this place at fifteen minutes to three on a bright afternoon, October the twenty-first, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-six."

Outside, children play in the long light of the autumn afternoon. Their laughter invades the stillness of his silent rooms, echoing off the walls of his dead heart with the naïve belief that friendship lasts forever.

~ Fin ~


End file.
